


more than a feeling

by GreenyLove



Series: twitter threads [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aftercare, Awkward Crush, Blindfolds, Boys Kissing, Dom Akaashi Keiji, Kink Exploration, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Love Bites, M/M, Pet Names, Pining, Praise Kink, Safewords, Scratching, Sensation Play, Sexual Content, Sub Tsukishima Kei, Subspace, Trans Tsukishima Kei, trans work by trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25055026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenyLove/pseuds/GreenyLove
Summary: Tsukishima scrambles to understand. “So, you like to blindfold yourself, and — ”A surprised laugh escapes Akaashi, quickly muffled behind his hand. His eyes are alight with mirth and something hungrier. “Oh, no, Tsukishima-kun. I would much rather do the blindfolding.”Fuck.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Tsukishima Kei
Series: twitter threads [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814404
Comments: 12
Kudos: 280





	more than a feeling

**Author's Note:**

> adapted from a thread originally shared on [twitter](https://twitter.com/greenywrites)
> 
> Tsukishima is a trans man in this work. I use highly nonspecific language re: genitalia.

Tsukishima is never late. Even for things he’d rather not do, like dentist appointments, he arrives on time, because there is no point in dragging out the experience. He’s never late but he’s also never early. That would suggest emotional investment and be equally misleading. 

So the fact the midmorning sun finds him standing awkwardly outside Akaashi’s new apartment, a full forty-seven minutes early, is...something to ponder. If he was the pondering sort. Which, he isn’t. What’s there to ponder? The trains were early. The line at the coffee house was short. He’s absolutely not standing on Akaashi’s owl doormat with two iced americanos sweating in his hands because he is nervous or, god forbid, anticipating something. 

Akaashi opens the door before he can figure out how to knock with his hands full. The raven-haired man regards him with fond amusement, narrow eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “The doorbell works. Bokuto-san tested it.”

“Extensively, I’m sure.” 

“Mmm,” Akaashi hums, stepping back to let Tsukishima inside. “May I take those?” 

Tsukishima hands off the coffees, wiping his damp hands on his jeans. Akaashi disappears down the hallway, saying something Tsukishima doesn’t catch about having fresh cream in the kitchen. Admittedly, Tsukishima isn’t listening, because Akaashi is wearing leggings, and his brain isn’t here right now. 

His...infatuation with his quiet, observant friend came without warning. One day they were leaning against a wall, sipping smoothies and ruthlessly commenting on Bokuto’s and Kuroo’s attempts to learn breakdancing. The next day, Akaashi showed up to lunch in a new pair of glasses, adjusting them shyly and asking if they looked okay. 

Kuroo reassures him, Bokuto begs to try them on, and lunch goes normally. Except Tsukishima’s appetite is even smaller than usual. He picks his sandwich into coin-sized pieces, silently reordering his entire world about the realization that Akaashi looks sexy in glasses. 

That was three weeks ago and Tsukishima would like to file a complaint. 

Nothing else has changed — Akaashi still wears the same tight chinos and soft cardigans, still styles his hair in the same artfully ruffled way, still smiles with only half his mouth but all of his heart. 

The only difference is the goddamn glasses. It makes no sense but suddenly Tsukishima is distracted. All the time. He fidgets and spaces out and goes home uncomfortably sticky in his underwear. He would like his brain and his body to chill the fuck out. 

His reprieve came in the form of Akaashi’s upstairs neighbor. They tried to fix their own sink and flooded not only their apartment but also part of Akaashi’s. Nothing crucial was lost (most of the damage was in the ceiling) but the whole place stank like mildew. His landlord was not pleased when Akaashi coolly insisted on an early termination of his lease, but it was hard to argue with Akaashi. 

So for a week, Tsukishima barely saw Akaashi as he packed his apartment. Bokuto offered his truck and his muscle, Kuroo brought home as many empty boxes from his part-time job as he could, and Tsukishima? Had neither muscles nor boxes, so he begged off. Tried to get his shit together. 

But he couldn’t ignore Akaashi forever — didn’t want to. Akaashi was one of his best friends. So Tsukishima just needed to get his goddamn head on straight and figure out how to...move forward. Adapt. 

Which was going to be difficult with Akaashi looking so relaxed. Snuggle-able. Tsukishima did not snuggle, thank you very much, but if this new version of his friend — in soft black leggings and an old sweater that bagged around his wrists — asked to spoon?

“Fuck,” Tsukishima whispers, slipping out of his shoes. 

“Hmm?” 

Akaashi blinks at him, from where the front hallway opens up into the main, open living room. He’s transferred their drinks into clean glasses, swirls of heavy fresh cream sinking into the dark brew. Sun from an unseen window gently touches the side of his face, slips into the shadows of his hair. 

Tsukishima coughs. “I sneezed. Allergies.” He rolls his eyes. Comes to take his drink. Glances appraisingly around the apartment and not at his pretty, pretty friend. 

“This is nicer than your last place,” he says, casual. The main room is an open sprawl, a kitchen that spills seamlessly into a living space lit by tall windows on either side of a balcony door. A familiar couch sits against one wall, along with boxes and boxes of books. 

“It’s smaller,” Akaashi hums, “but the windows help. I chose this unit for the light. And the built ins.” 

He points into a den, where Tsukishima sees two floor-to-ceiling bookcases built into the wall. The thought of Akaashi sitting between them in his favorite chair, reading by lamp late into the night, glasses slipping down his nose — it’s so cute. He sips his coffee to cover his blush. 

Akaashi inclines his head down a hall beside the kitchen. “Let me show you the rest.” 

The hall leads to a bathroom, which is small but white, clean. Stepping into the bedroom feels...intimate, but the clutter of unpacked boxes helps. His bed sits in the middle of the far wall, piled with unorganized sheets and pillows. There are piles of clothes, and shoes, and boxes that might have more, loosely centered around the open door to the most spacious walk-in closet Tsukishima has ever seen. 

“Shit,” he whistles, appreciatively. “Maybe you’ll finally have room for all your clothes.” 

Akaashi giggles. (Fuck, fuck.) He sips his own coffee, pleased. “I was hoping you would help me organize it? Unlike our other friends, you have a functioning understanding of fashion.” 

“You mean I don’t wear gym shorts and band t-shirts everywhere,” Tsukishima says, scoffing. He hopes Kuroo and Bokuto can feel his ire. 

“Exactly, yes.” 

“Bring it on.” 

Akaashi looks away, but Tsukishima thinks he smiles. 

It’s easy to settle into the work. After a brief debate about organization, they decide to arrange things seasonally. Tsukishima settles on the floor, sifting through piles of soft shirts, sweaters, skinny pants, fitted jackets. Akaashi hangs the warm-weather things on the right, where there’s more room; cold weather goes into fabric storage bins. 

It’s work, but it doesn’t feel like it with Akaashi. 

It does make Tsukishima feel guilty, for avoiding this. 

“I’m glad Kuroo and Bokuto didn’t chip all your dishes, or something,” he says, looking determinedly at the sweater folded in his lap. It’s the closest he can come to apologizing. 

Akaashi hums. “Bokuto-san broke a lamp.” 

“Oaf,” Tsukishima mutters, rolling his eyes. He moves the sweater into a growing pile, and deems the pile ready for storage in a bin. When he turns back to his spot, there are no more sweaters. Just a cardboard box. 

“Ah, that can go straight to the shelves,” Akaashi says, pointing to the upper reaches of the closet. 

Tsukishima nods, and picks it up. It’s surprisingly light. 

He turns. He trips. The box spills everywhere.

“Oh shit, sorry. I…” he trails off. Confused. Whatever he expected to find, it wasn’t this. Dozens and dozens of silk scarves spill out across the beige carpet. Scarves of various lengths and thickness, a majority of them black with some jewel tones mixed in. 

“Ah.” Akaashi’s tone is so, so neutral. Painfully casual. “No harm done, Tsukishima-kun. I thought I packed that more neatly.”

Tsukishima crouches, starts to pick them up, but pauses. Runs his fingers along them. “They’re soft.” 

“They should be.” It’s impossible to read Akaashi’s face. “They are meant to be worn for a long time.” 

Tsukishima frowns. He holds one, each end in a fist, and stretches it out to its full length. It can’t be more than two feet long, and seems too thin to keep anyone warm. Maybe it’s some kind of statement piece, but why….

“You have a lot of them,” he says slowly. He’s so, so curious, but doesn’t know what to ask.

Akaashi clears his throat. “I might need a lot of them.” 

That answers nothing. Tsukishima lowers his hands, worries the scarf between his fingers and his teeth between his lip. Of all the mysterious things about Akaashi, this one snags him. What are they for, what are they for — 

He doesn’t realize he’s asked out loud until Akaashi crouches before him and gently takes the scarves into his own hands.

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“If you want,” Tsukishima huffs, flustered. He’s already shown more interest than he would ever normally admit. 

Akaashi pauses, watches him for a moment with those lovely eyes, and then flips Tsukishima’s world upside down. 

“Tsukishima-kun, have you ever heard of erotic sensation play?” 

Tsukishima needs a moment to reboot himself. Something comes loose in his brain, hearing Akaashi say the word ‘erotic’ in a calm, steady voice. “Like...spanking?” 

“Not exclusively. Spanking, caning, flogging, those things are a kind of sensation play centered on impact. How tools feel when they strike the body,” Akaashi explains, evenly as if he’s explaining how to cook eggs, or find a book at the library. “But there are other ways, too. Depriving one sense to heighten others. You would be surprised how...intense simple touches can feel when they become all you can focus on.” 

Tsukishima scrambles to understand. “So, you like to blindfold yourself, and — ”

A surprised laugh escapes Akaashi, quickly muffled behind his hand. His eyes are alight with mirth and something hungrier. “Oh, no, Tsukishima-kun. I would much rather do the blindfolding.”

Fuck.

Tsukishima has no words. He is aware that his face is red, that he gapes at Akaashi like an inexperienced fool. Akaashi frowns, brows pinching together.

“I apologize, Tsukishima-kun, if I have made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.” That feels like that wrong word. “Just...thinking.” 

Akaashi is patient with him, lets him work through his thoughts, but Tsukishima wishes he wouldn’t. He needs Akaashi to steer the conversation elsewhere, needs to jump off this train of thought before he says something he regrets. He needs some distance, some levity, needs this to become something they can treat with sarcasm and sharp words instead of this shaky soft whatever squeezing around his heart.

Sarcasm is exactly what tumbles out of his mouth. “I guess I don’t see how some scraps of fabric can be arousing.” 

Fuck, he hates those words as soon as he says them, but he can’t stop. “It must not be my kind of thing.” 

Akaashi watches him, evaluating. Tsukishima feels pinned by his gaze. Finally, Akaashi smiles. “Would you like me to show you, Tsukishima-kun?” 

“What?” 

“Maybe if you experience this kind of play for yourself, you’ll see exactly what these scraps of fabric can accomplish.” 

Tsukishima might be dying. Akaashi takes pity on him and gently touches his wrists. When did his hands start shaking?

Akaashi’s voice is gentle, forgiving. “You are under no obligation, Tsukishima-kun. I would hate it, if this made things awkward between us. You can refuse, or we can talk more another day.” 

“Why do you want to do something like that with me?” he asks. It’s a boggling thought: Akaashi, offering something so intimate, something with ‘erotic’ in the name. 

The older man only smiles, small but keen. “You are very beautiful, Tsukishima-kun. I like beautiful things. And I know you will enjoy it.”

“Cocky,” he croaks. 

“I’m very good.”

Tsukishima inhales, tries to think. Thinks about a lot of things, thinks about what agreeing might entail. He wonders if Kuroo or Bokuto have ever seen or touched these scarves, wonders if he will be good enough or if he will mess things up — but then he looks at Akaashi. The unfiltered interest in his eyes quiets the storm in Tsukishima’s mind. 

He doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions but he knows that he likes being the focus of Akaashi’s attention, so he swallows and wets his lips and says, “Okay.” 

Akaashi smiles, a little less soft than before. “Stay there.” 

Tsukishima stays. Akaashi stands, pads out of the bedroom and returns with a velvet stool, a statement piece like one might find before a dressing room vanity. He sets it in the middle of the room. “Please sit, hands on your knees.” 

Tsukishima obeys. 

Akaashi watches him for a long moment, the same calculating gleam in his eye that he gets on the court, picking apart the opposing team. Tsukishima wonders how many possible scenarios he runs through, and how many of them end with the smile Akaashi gives him next. It’s a half-grin, fleeting, but pleased. 

“Tsukishima-kun,” he begins, crouching in front of where he sits rigidly on the stool, “you must promise me one thing. If you need to stop, for any reason at all, you will say ‘red’, and I will stop. Do you promise?” 

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I will say ‘red’ if I need you to stop.”

Akaashi smiles again, and strokes his fingers along Tsukishima’s chin as he stands back up. “Good. Thank you, Tsukishima-kun.” 

Tsukishima doesn’t know what to say. Shouldn’t he be thanking Akaashi? Every second of...whatever this is, already feels like more than he deserves. 

“We won’t do anything complex today,” Akaashi explains, as though Tsukishima knows what that means. He picks up two scarves, long black ones, and shows them to Tsukishima. “I won’t use anything more than this.” 

Tsukishima pouts. He is uncomfortable with the implication that there is more than the scarves, some harder challenge he has been denied. “I’m not breakable.” 

“I know.” Akaashi crouches before him, rests the scarves on his knees. He gently takes Tsukishima’s wrists in his own hands. His fingers are cool and soft. “I’m going to start with your wrists.” 

Tsukishima swallows. “I’m ready.”

Akaashi’s half-smile is almost pitying. 

Tsukishima expects him to bind his wrists quickly, to move through what he assumes to be preparatory without much fuss. Instead, Akaashi cradles his right hand like he holds something precious. Runs his fingers along his wrist, tracing blue-green veins. He maps out his palm, his bony knuckles, lightly pets across his fingernails. It’s soft, languid. It leaves Tsukishima feeling submerged, tenderly, in a warm bath. Neither of them speak, but that’s fine — Tsukishima isn’t one for excessive talking and neither is Akaashi. There’s just the sound of their breathing, and Akaashi’s cold fingertips, and the warmth stirring in Tsukishima’s hands. 

Once he has mapped both hands, he arranges them together and reaches for the first scarf. Somewhere beneath the fog carefully settling on his mind, Tsukishima jolts. He’d honestly forgotten the scarves, the entire pretense of Akaashi touching him. He just wanted Akaashi to keep touching him. He is embarrassed, briefly, by how quickly he lost himself in the sensation of his friend’s touch. He should be paying attention. 

Akaashi detects his shift in mood. “You are doing very well, Tsukishima-kun,” he says, lowly. “Hold still for me.” 

With methodical grace, he binds Tsukishima’s hands in black silk. 

Once satisfied, Akaashi guides them to rest right between Tsukishima’s knees. The pose forces his arms to extend and his back to straighten. Not uncomfortably, but the position is far from natural. “Stay just like this,” Akaashi says. “Tell me.” 

“I-I will stay like this,” he repeats. Words feel clumsy in his mouth. 

His obedience pleases Akaashi. He rises to his feet, keeping one scarf in his hand and resting the third across tsukishima’s shoulder. Something about the perfunctory nature of that gesture, the casual way it asserts dominance, makes Tsukishima’s chest tight. 

“I’m going to cover your eyes.”

“Yes.” His voice sounds small in his own ears. 

A soft hand brushes back his bangs, cards through his hair. The drag of nails against his scalp carbonates his blood, a whine fizzing up through his chest. Akaashi removes his glasses. 

The world goes fuzzy and his eyes feel glassy, half-lidded as he blinks up where Akaashi looms above him. 

“Marvelous,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down to gently brush Tsukishima’s eyelids, closing them. “That’s very good.” 

Tsukishima wants more information, wants to know exactly what he does so well, but the urge to interrupt swells and dies without fuss. Akaashi called him ‘marvelous’ and all he did was sit still. He can keep sitting still, if it means Akaashi keeps touching him. 

The weight of the scarf on his eyes, across his nose, settles him. Akaashi folds it into a thinner strip, just wide enough to block the incoming light. He knots it behind his head, fusses with his hair, until his blond waves fall in the way that must please him. Tsukishima feels comforted, safe in the childish notion that if he cannot see Akaashi, the raven-haired man cannot see him. 

This does not last for long. 

As his body adjusts to the lack of sight, other awarenesses expand. The birds outside the window, traffic on the distant street. The faint smell of coffee on his clothes. Lavender detergent from Akaashi’s laundry. The pressure of silk against his skin. The uneven way his breath rattles out of his lungs. 

The weight of Akaashi’s eyes. 

“You look lovely like this, Kei-kun.” 

Tsukishima shudders. 

Hands land softly on his shoulders, a light caress through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He has barely reoriented himself — Akaashi is now behind him, he thinks — when a nose presses into his hair, just above his ear. “Can I call you that? Kei-kun?” 

“Please.” 

“Please what?” 

“Please call me...whatever makes you happy.” He can’t say it. It sounds dumb when he says it. But he wants Akaashi to say it, as many times as he likes. 

A barely-there chuckle, a gentle kiss on the curl of his ear. “You have to be careful with your permissions, Kei-kun. Whatever makes me happy?” 

Hands slip off his shoulders, trace the seam of his shirt until fingertips find bare skin. Tuck under the hem, curl, tug gently. It’s whimsical, mindless, but it gives Tsukishima goosebumps. “What if I want to call you sweetheart?” 

Tsukishima is not proud of the sound he makes. 

“What about sunshine?” One hand slides back into his hair. The grip tightens and pulls, until his head tips back. It becomes difficult to hold his pose without bowing his back, chest thrust out in a way that feels lewd. “Or baby?” 

The other hand leaves him. Tsukishima loses track of Akaashi, aware only of the pinpricks of discomfort radiating from the fist in his hair. The feeling of his mouth on his chin catches him so off-guard he gasps, tries to jerk away. 

“Shh, Kei-kun,” Akaashi murmurs, tracing his jawline with his mouth, “remember your word. You’re doing beautifully. So open. So pretty.” 

Tsukishima trembles. 

The hand in his hair goes away. He floats in his mind, Akaashi nothing more than a voice in the dark. “Do you need to use your word?” 

It’s an honest question, Akaashi’s tone completely neutral. Tsukishima shakes his head, already craving the hands, the hands that touch and move him — 

“No, no, I like this, please.” 

The hands come back, settling on his knees. “I’m here, Kei-kun. I’m going to teach you another color. If you like what I do, say ‘green’. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m going to touch you. What’s your color?” 

“G-Green.” 

“Perfect.” 

Tsukishima doesn’t have specific fantasies — that would be too close to wanting something, and things he wants can hurt him — but this scenario? Where the things Tsukishima wants don’t matter, only the feelings that Akaashi wants to give him? This, this absolves him. He is free and he can burn. 

And oh, Akaashi makes him burn. 

It starts on his arms, with light touches, just the whispery scratch of calluses across his forearms. It’s so methodical, soothing, a lullaby of touch. Touch is constant and unceasing, builds up a buzz beneath his skin. He goes higher and higher with each upstroke, until each round traces all the way from Tsukishima’s wrist, to shoulder, and then back. 

When Akaashi switches to his nails it’s still light, but different, something new to catalog. Then he presses harder and harder, pleasure swirling with discomfort and then pain, until Tsukishima is positive he has red welts up and down his arms. 

By the time his arms are two bright, pulsing fields of heat, Akaashi begins to alternate. Feathery light on the upstroke, scratching on the downstroke. It electrifies him, makes him gasp. But right when it becomes too much, the pressure goes away. Retreats to just fingertips, stroking white lines through the swollen red heat. Just once Akaashi drags his palms from his bound wrists to his shoulders. The pressure and drag rip a choked moan out of Tsukishima's chest. 

His eyes are wet behind the blindfold, red and blue phosphenes speckling the dark. All he can hear in his erratic heartbeat. His arms feel heavy. His shoulders are so tight. But that all exists somewhere on the surface. Below his buzzing skin, in the seat of his chest, right between his lungs — there’s a balloon of light, slowly swelling, pushing away every sensation except the thrill of Akaashi’s hands. 

And Akaashi’s mouth. 

The first kiss lands on his neck, and jolts him back into his body so suddenly he cries out. There are hands on his elbows, thumbs digging mercilessly into the vulnerable skin there, and there is a mouth of his neck. Akaashi kisses again, and again, quick but firm, and then latches onto his pulse point and sucks. 

Tsukishima’s jaw goes slack. He whimpers. He has two brain cells capable of thought, and they rejoice. Tsukishima doesn’t want things, but if he did, he would want this — Akaashi’s mouth, wet and confident, biting bruises into his skin.

He wants. He wants, he wants, he wants. He is so unbearably wet. He wants Akaashi’s mouth everywhere. For the first time ever he wants out of his clothes, wants to feel those fingers on his surgery scars. Wants to peel away his underwear. Wants to be as bare as he feels inside. 

Akaashi’s hands drag up. He fists his hair again. A nail scrapes across the hickeys discoloring his neck, connecting them like stars in a blistering constellation. “Gorgeous, angel.” 

Tsukishima pants, open-mouthed. Akaashi says his name like it drips off his tongue, like it could fall from his mouth and into Tsukishima’s. “I’ve barely done anything,” he continues, “and you’re so unravelled. It’s stunning. Imagine what I could do with your whole body.” 

Fingers find his lips, tracing around his open mouth. At some point, Tsukishima drooled, and Akaashi swipes it up, smears it around like chapstick. “I want to melt ice on your stomach, Kei-kun. I want to drip wax on your thighs.” A silence. Akaashi’s gaze has never felt so heavy. “You would like that, too, I think. You like being my good, obedient boy.” 

Tsukishima’s gasp is wet. Is he crying? His hands curl so tightly. He yearns to touch himself, to relieve the tension, but Akaashi is his puppetmaster and he is right, Tsukishima wants to be good. 

The finger sketching his mouth slips inside, petting carefully along his tongue. His whole body shivers. Akaashi makes a noise — a subdued groan, barely audible, but it lights Kei on fire. 

Akaashi is turned on. Akaashi likes this too. Wants this, wants him. 

Tsukishima is so fucked. There is no going back from this. There is no longer a world where he doesn’t know how Akaashi sounds as he finger-fucks Tsukishima’s mouth. 

“Kei-kun,” Akaashi croons. The fingers leave his mouth and pinch his chin, tilting it up, up, up until vertigo makes him sway. The fist in his hair keeps him steady. “Could you come? Just from this?” 

Tsukishima shakes. 

Akaashi groans, louder, uninhibited. 

It happens very quickly. 

Akaashi kisses him, hot-blooded and consuming. Lips rubbing lips, tongue stroking tongue. More spit leaks down his chin, cooling on his neck. 

The fist in his hair tightens to the point of pain. 

The hand on his face drops between his arms, between his thighs. Those wicked fingers knead him through his jeans, right over his center, right where he aches. 

Tsukishima sobs and falls to pieces. 

Akaashi carries him through it, kissing and stroking. He eases up when Tsukishima’s core gives out, and he slumps sideways, off the stool and into Akaashi’s lap. 

Hands. Hands hold him. There is a warm hand on his stomach, a comforting weight, and there’s a hand petting his hair. “Beautiful, Kei-kun, you darling angel. Thank you.” A sweet kiss, on his hairline. “You did marvelously. You are so gorgeous when you come.” 

Tsukishima doesn’t speak, just floats. Feels the aftershocks twitch through him. He is faintly aware of hands, Akaashi’s hands on his wrist. “I’m going to take these off.” 

The binding loosens, silk sliding away. Akaashi carefully massages each wrist, guides him to curl and uncurl his fingers. The blindfold goes next, ambient light brightening the grey, but Tsukishima keeps his eyes closed. Clings to this between space. 

“Kei-kun. Can you give me a color?” 

It takes him a moment to swallow and wet his lips. “Green. Fuck.” 

Akaashi snorts. “I take it you’re back, then.” 

“I’m…” Tsukishima trails off, unable to explain quite how he is. Slowly, he peels open his eyes, blinking until the blur sorts itself into general shapes. He lies against Akaashi’s chest, legs spread akimbo across the carpet. If he looks up he is close enough to see Akaashi in sharper detail. The flush on his cheeks. The happiness in his eyes. 

He probably looks like a disaster. Eventually he will have to stand, and clean the spit off his face, and address the stickiness between his legs. He will hold Akaashi’s hand and ask to kiss him, as equals, and they’ll talk. Maybe he’ll drag him out to dinner. Maybe they’ll curl up on his bed and rub lotion on his sore arms. 

But for now, Tsukishima exhales, relaxes, lets his head rest against Akaashi’s shoulder. Smiles at him, and feels a different kind of lightness in his heart when Akaashi smiles back. 

“I’m good,” he croaks, “wherever this is. I’m really, really good.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! kudos and comments appreciated! I respond to comments! :) 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/greenywrites)


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